


Lights Will Guide You Home, and Ignite Your Bones

by raineraine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AUish, Accident, Alternate Timeline, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Art, Big Bang Challenge, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America Big Bang 2018 | cabigbang, Chronic Pain, Depictions of Chronic Pain, Embedded Images, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Steve Rogers, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Protective Bucky Barnes, Recovery, References to Canon, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Stony - Freeform, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, buckynat if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raineraine/pseuds/raineraine
Summary: Instead of hitting Rhodey, Vision's beam hits Steve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohstars/gifts).



> This fic was written for the 2018 Captain American Big Bang, and was based on a prompt originally posted by [illbetherestonyfest](http://illbetherestonyfest.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. The artwork featured was created by the lovely [ohstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohstars/pseuds/ohstars), who has been absolute joy to work with! Thanks to my stand-in betas (who aren't on AO3) for their last-minute pinching.

The Avengers were brought together to defend Earth. They were supposed to be a cohesive unit, bound together by the same convictions. That was before— before the Battle of New York, before Sokovia, before the Accords. It was never supposed to come to this.  
  


Before they had gone to Germany, Tony had to tell Peter _something._ He had to justify fighting Captain-fucking-America.

 

_He thinks he’s right. And when Steve believes in something, he will defend it to the very end. Right now… That makes him dangerous._

 

Everything had happened so fast. Steve refusing to stand down was inevitable— if Tony had thought they could talk it out, he wouldn’t have come with backup. It was always going to end in a fight, this thing with Barnes.

  
What Tony hadn’t expected was Steve involving a man-turned-giant into the mix. He’d forgotten all about Steve the moment said-giant had sent his best friend soaring through the air like a child’s toy. Rhodey gave Tony a shaky thumbs up once he was able to steady himself in the air once more.

 

Assured that the stunt had been nothing more than an annoying (and confusing— honestly, where had Steve found that guy?) distraction, Tony’s gaze fell to the ground once more. “Where’s Cap?” Tony demanded as he glided over the scene. Shooting Peter a warning glance to stay down as he passed, Tony tried the comms again. “Vision? You got eyes on Cap?”  
  
When no response came, Tony headed straight up for an aerial overview. “Nat?” Silence. “Does anyone have their damn comm on?”

 

“Tony, I’ve got movement,” Rhodey chimed in.

 

“Where?”

  
“Quinjet, two o’clock!”

 

Vision’s voice finally broke over the comms. “I’m sorry. It’s as I said… Catastrophe.”

 

Vision’s words still in his ear, paired with explosions surrounding Rhodey on his right and Steve escaping on his left, were enough to make Tony’s head explode. Everything was too much.  
  
“Vision, I’ve got a bandit on my six!” Rhodey cried.  
  
Silence.  
  
“Vision!” Rhodey’s voice shouted over the comms once more. “Target has thrusters, turn him into a glider!”

 

It should have been simple.

 

Tony’s eyes were trained straight ahead, focused solely on how he could catch up to the quinjet. He watched the engine burst into flames, right in front of him. There was a still-smoking sear that ran from the engine straight up to the windshield. Rhodey’s gasp of horror seemed so far away— Tony’s mind was still on Steve. Steve, who had been piloting the quinjet that was nosediving.

 

“Give me everything we’ve got!” Tony screamed to Friday, changing course for the jet. “Rhodey! Give me a hand!”

 

“We’ll never catch them!” Rhodey howled. “Tony, this is suicide!”

 

“I’m not going to watch Steve die!”

 

It didn’t matter in that moment why Steve was fleeing from him. It didn’t matter who Steve was protecting. Ross’s orders didn’t matter anymore. Neither did T’challa’s vendetta against Barnes. All that mattered was stopping that jet from hitting the ground, with Steve in it.

 

“Goddamnit Friday, I said everything!” Tony swore as he strained to reach the jet.

 

“Flight system malfunctions detected,” Friday informed him. “Boss, you have sustained damage.”

 

He couldn’t make it before the plane slammed into the ground. All Tony could do was scream as he watched the impact, landing too many moments too late.

 

“Requesting backup,” Friday announced.

 

Vision descended from the sky with Wanda cradled in his arms.

 

“Wanda, the flames,” Vision urged as he set her down on the grassy terrain.

 

“I’ve got it.” Wanda’s hands moved in intricate shapes as she encased the flames on the engine in a red orb before pushing it into the air, the embers snuffing out before they could reach the ground.

 

“Steve,” Tony whispered in horror as he ran for the jet. “We have to get to Steve.”

 

Tony hit the door of the jet with a repulsor blast and ripped it out of the way. Even though Wanda had gotten to the flames, smoke had already shrouded the cockpit too much to make out a body. _Where are you, Steve?_

 

Landing flat on his feet, Tony stepped forward gingerly, unsure of the integrity of the jet post-impact. The sharp slant downward nearly threw him off balance, splaying his arms out in search of anything to keep hold of.  “Friday, I need some light.”

 

On cue, the eyes of his helmet brightened, cutting through the smoke and landing on the seats. Tony could see Barnes’ hair, sticking to his face where he was slumped back against the headrest with his eyes closed. Begrudgingly, Tony placed a hand on Bucky’s chest. “Read vitals.”

 

“Stable,” Friday confirmed, “though we can’t rule out shock, or a concussion.”

 

“Alert medical.” Tony pushed aside a hunk of what must have been the windshield, forcing his way to the other side. Steve was hunched forward, with his neck bent at an angle that made Tony’s stomach flip. “Steve?” he called out, already knowing it was useless.

 

Nothing.

 

Afraid to touch Steve’s head, Tony pressed a finger to his chest, feeling it rise and fall. “Friday?” Tony whispered shakily.

 

“Heart rate dangerously high. Medical is on the way.” Friday paused for a moment. “Movement is not advised, Boss.”

 

Tony was still watching Steve breathe when medical arrived.

* * *

 

The staff had shooed everyone out of the way, whisking Steve into a room before pointedly closing the door behind them. All Tony could do was watch through a window, wondering where Natasha had gone. She was the only one among them who spoke German.

 

Vision appeared beside him, mouth pulled down in a frown as he watched the nurses checking Steve’s vitals.

“How did this happen?” Tony implored, crossing his arms over his chest.

  
“I became distracted,” Vision admitted tersely.

 

Tony’s jaw tensed as he looked at Vision. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

 

Vision turned to face Tony, keeping his voice steady. “Neither did I.”

 

“I don’t know if I’m worth all this,” a voice behind them sighed.

 

Tony whipped around to find Barnes, leaning against the wall with a far-off look in his eyes.  
  
  
“You,” Tony hissed, “shouldn’t be here.”

 

“I declined further treatment. They couldn’t force me to stay in that room.” Bucky straightened his shoulders, casting a glance at Vision. “Don’t take your shit out on me, Stark. I didn’t start this war.”

 

“So this is my fault?” The breath went out of Tony’s chest. “You… you think I caused this?”

 

Bucky shook his head slowly. “I think we’re all human, Stark. Humans make mistakes.”

 

Vision floated to Tony’s side. “I am not human, Mister Barnes.”

 

“Vision, don’t.” Tony gave him a warning look. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

 

“I believe this is what you would call… guilt.” Vision dropped to the floor with a frown. “I don’t know how to deal with these— the range of human emotions. They are difficult and… painful.”

 

Bucky pulled one of his hands from his pocket, slowly, before holding the metal up to Vision’s face. “I’m no more human than you are. I shouldn’t even be alive. Steve shouldn’t either. And yet, we’re all here.”  
  
For once, Tony didn’t have anything to say.

* * *

 

When the nursing staff was no longer standing by to tell Tony to stay out, he’d pulled up a chair close to Steve’s side, fingers steepled against his chin as he waited for any sign of consciousness.

 

The doctor who swept into Steve’s room was tall and thin, with a heavy accent that Tony had to strain to understand. Her name badge read ‘Mia Müller,’ probably a native German. At least Dr. Müller spoke English.

 

“Who are you in relation to Steve Rogers?”

 

“We’re teammates,” Tony asserted, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“And he has no family present?” the doctor pressed, Steve’s chart tucked under her arm.

 

“His family has been dead for several decades.”

 

Nodding, Dr. Müller opened Steve’s chart. “Captain Rogers has several herniated cervical discs.” Flipping through Steve’s chart, she sighed heavily. “I suggest you consult with someone who better understands his… unique medical history. I can only give you the diagnosis.”  
  
“What about a prognosis?” Tony demanded, standing up so fast his chair clattered to the floor. “What is he going to wake up to?”

 

Tapping her chin with a pen, Dr. Müller studied Steve thoughtfully. “Soreness. Pain. He may have trouble turning his head, but the brace should help with that.”

 

“And how are you going to treat it?” Tony pressed, crossing his arms over his chest as he met the doctor’s gaze.

 

“Your Captain’s serum was quite a hot topic when I was in medical school. Abraham Erskine was a native of our country, after all. Still, I am no expert. He will metabolize medication quickly. This I understand from Erskine’s notes.”

 

“So he’s supposed to just wait around in pain?” Bucky demanded from the doorway.

 

Tony couldn’t be sure when he’d shown up. Seemed like Barnes had a habit of appearing from the shadows.

 

“Who are you?” The doctor asked, clearly bewildered by the presence of another person. When Bucky gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes still fixated on her for an answer, she pinched the bridge of her nose and continued on. “As I already suggested, you need to consult with someone else.”

 

Snorting, Tony threw up his hands. “Erskine has been dead for years, and the only PhD-toting pain-in-my-ass that seems to know anything about it has been missing in action for years. So unless you’ve got some brilliant ace of a doctor up your sleeve, you’re our best bet. I’m not putting that man on a plane back to the States until he’s treated!”

 

Tilting her head, the doctor eyed Tony once more. “Steroid injections may control the swelling, if administered in exceptional dosage. But you have to understand, Mister…?”

  
“Stark. Tony Stark.”

 

At that, Mia gave a tight smile. “I should have known. The American genius.” With a quick shake of her head, she pointed to Steve once more. “As I was saying, Mister _Stark_ , I do not see a proxy listed. You cannot make that choice for him.”

 

“He’s unconscious. Probably has a concussion, based on my experience with falls. What does the proxy paperwork matter?” Tony snapped.

 

She waved her hand at Steve’s still-sleeping body. “Mister Stark, I have to abide by hospital policy. Although… I will say, this is not the frustration I see from our military men for their _teammates_ , as you called him before.”

 

Bucky was staring at Tony now, his jaw convulsing from clenching it too hard. “Doc, could you give us a minute? Preferably while you go figure out how to manage Steve’s pain?”

 

With a terse nod, the doctor narrowly side-stepped Bucky on her way out of Steve’s room.

 

When they could no longer hear the sound of her footfalls in the hall, Bucky pulled the door shut, pressing his palm flat to the wood. “What was she talking about, Stark? I swear to fucking God if you don’t tell me the truth, herniated discs will be the kindest thing I leave you with.”

 

“Are you trying to wake him?” Tony hissed from Steve’s bedside. “Lower your goddamn voice, Barnes.”

 

“Don’t make this about me!” Bucky whispered sharply.

 

Tony jerked his head toward the door. “Out. Now.”

 

It took every ounce of restraint in Tony’s body to stop him from calling up a suit and slamming Barnes through the wall as soon as the door clicked shut.

 

“Talk.” Barnes clenched and unclenched his fingers.

 

“About what? What is it you think you’re here to sniff out?”

 

“Stark, cut the bullshit.” Bucky tilted his chin up, mirroring Tony’s defiance. “Would you be here if any of your other teammates had been knocked out of the sky?”

 

Tony scoffed at the notion. “I care about _all_ of the Avengers. Even the ones who try to smuggle internationally wanted assassins out of the country.”

 

“See, that’s just it.” Shaking his head, Bucky leaned back against the wall, sparing a glance into the window of Steve’s room. “Steve did something that pissed you off enough to make you come _track him down._ He made you stomp around on a power trip about how you were right. Yet there you were, the first one on the scene to rescue him after a guy on your side of the line almost killed him.”

 

“For the record, I was chasing the quinjet the two of you stole.” Tony swallowed, trying to push the rest of his words back down, bury them so far down that Barnes wouldn’t have a single syllable to leverage against him.

 

Bucky’s laughter was hollow. “You were just in the right place at the right time? Is that your story?”

 

“I don’t owe you anything, Barnes.” Tony turned away from Bucky, gripping the doorknob to steady his hand. “The only person I owe a damn thing to is Steve, because Vision is… Vision wouldn’t exist without me.”

 

Pushing his ball cap further up on his head, Bucky gave Tony a head-to-toe look. “I don’t trust anyone, Stark. But for some fucked up reason… Steve trusts you. Even after all this, he’ll wake up forgiving you. I guess that’s something I’ll have to live with.”

 

Tony had been dozing in and out, his jacket balled up between his head and the wall, for a few hours before Steve stirred.

 

It wasn’t grand, as movements go— Steve had rolled from his back onto his side. The sound of the papery sheets shuffling had been enough to make Tony’s eyes creep open. The neckbrace looked like it was digging into Steve’s cheekbone, and Tony winced sympathetically.

 

“Tony?”

 

The voice, even racked with pain, was unmistakable.

 

Stumbling from the chair to kneel at Steve’s side, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, Tony bent to Steve’s eye level. “Hey. Hi. You’re awake?”

 

Steve’s eyes remained shut. “Where am I?”

 

“Ah, well.” Tony was suddenly very aware of Bucky’s absence. Everything fell to him to explain. “You’re at a hospital in Germany.”

 

Steve frowned as his eyes fluttered open a centimeter, squinted against the brightness of the overhead light. “We were at the airport in Germany.”

 

Letting out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, Tony nodded. “We were. And I think you remembering that rules out retrograde amnesia.”

 

“Where’s Bucky?”

 

“Finding something to eat,” Tony assured him. He put a hand on Steve’s arm, feather-light, like maybe the serum wasn’t doing its job anymore and Steve was breakable. “Do you remember what happened?”

 

“No,” Steve admitted quietly. He looked like he was fighting to keep his eyes open. “I spent most of my life in hospitals. Just thought I was done with that.”

 

The familiar tightness in his throat, just before he was about to cry, made Tony wonder how he was going to get out of this. Out of telling Steve what happened. Out of this room. Out of the nightmare he’d been dropped into since he’d gotten to Germany. “I’ll tell you,” he promised Steve, “but I think I should… get the doctor.”

 

One of Steve’s hands closed over Tony’s. “Later. ‘M tired.”

 

Tony looked at Steve’s fingers, already slipping off of his hand as exhaustion reeled him back in, down into the folds of the hospital bed. “Okay.” Steve’s eyes were already closed before the words left Tony’s mouth. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

* * *

* * *

 

Steve was being spoken to by a nurse in soft tones when Tony woke once again, this time with Barnes camped in a chair at the other side of Steve’s bed. The nurses weren’t shooing them out for taking up too much room, but if Bucky Barnes was good for anything in Tony’s book, it was his innate ability to scare people off with a single look. After noting Steve’s vitals on the whiteboard above his head, the nurse disappeared.

 

“I didn’t understand anything she said,” Steve admitted, flushing with embarrassment.

 

“German wasn’t exactly an Army elective,” Bucky snorted. “I don’t think she expected you to know a damn thing, Stevie.”

 

“How are you feeling?” Tony asked gently.

 

Steve didn’t answer right away, taking his time to consider the question (and the ceiling tiles). “Like Marshall Jensen just beat the living hell out of me because I told him to stop picking on Bucky’s sister.”

 

At Bucky’s short burst of laughter, Tony concluded that it was supposed to be funny. _There’s nothing funny about you laying there broken, Steve._ “Forties humor,” he groaned.

 

“That’s right, you’re just in the over-forty club, right?” Bucky shot back. “If he can joke about the worst Brooklyn beating he ever got, it can’t be that bad. Right?”

 

“Maybe,” Tony echoed, watching Steve’s too-tight smile fade away.

 

A knock at the door startled all three of them.

 

Dr. Müller’s long, fair-haired head peered around the doorframe. “Good. He’s awake,” she stated as she pushed the door open wider to step into the room. “Steve Rogers. I am your doctor, Mia Müller. Have the nurses informed you of your current condition?”

 

“Aside from the neck brace?” Bucky snarked. “They all speak German, doc.”

 

She frowned, consulting the white board and tapping on a name scribbled at the bottom. “Ah. You have Hannah. This will not do, it should have been Leon. He speaks English. I will correct this with the staff. In any case, allow me to bring you up to speed, Steve.”

 

Steve fumbled with the remote on the bed, pushing the “up” arrow as Tony had showed him, to straighten up. “What’s the report?”

 

“Your cervical vertebrae have been injured, which we are trying to control with your neck brace. However, this alone will not help you. I am familiar with Doctor Erskine, and understand you were a recipient of his experimental serum. You should have a remarkable metabolism, according to his notes, but I do not know much beyond this. Have you taken much medication since the serum?”

 

“None at all, ma’am,” Steve admitted. “I haven’t gotten so much as a cold. Bunch of bruises, sure, but those fade.”

  
Dr. Müller nodded. “I expected as much. Still, Mister Stark insists on initiating treatment prior to your release from my hospital. I cannot proceed without your consent.”

 

“What kind of treatment?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “And how d’ya know it’ll work?”

 

“I do not know of the success rate,” she admitted with a wave of her hand, “but neither does anyone else. There is no other case such as this. According to the literature left by Doctor Erskine, Steve should have healed. He has not. I wish to proceed with a series of steroid injections, Steve, given every 4 hours. A normal person would have to wait three weeks between doses. Perhaps if we are aggressive, it will take. You must understand I cannot promise the outcome of this treatment.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been an experiment,” Steve divulged, meeting Dr. Müller’s tired gaze. “I consent.”

 

“I will get you a consent form,” Mia promised. “After that we can begin immediately.”

* * *

 

Dr. Müller had made good on her treatment plan for Steve, administering five injections by the following afternoon. Tony was pacing the length of Steve’s room, only because it sounded like a better idea than prowling the halls to ambush the doctor. Steve’s condition hadn’t changed.

 

“You know, this should have never happened.” The click of Tony’s shoes on the tile floor were getting louder with every step. “You’re not supposed to _stay_ hurt.”

 

“Tony, don’t do this.”

 

“Steve, I showed up at the airport with an arsenal of backup!” Tony crowed in frustration.

 

“And so did I,” Steve argued as he struggled to sit up. “I wish we agreed on the Accords, I really do. Maybe we wouldn’t have been in this whole mess if we did.”

 

“Goddamnit, Steve, I had to do _something._ ” Tony pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, willing himself to take a few breaths before he said something he would regret. “The Avengers were going to destroy everything, not just the bad guys.”

 

Steve stilled, pushed up on his elbows, focusing on Tony’s chest instead of his face. “Maybe you’re right. But they needed a choice. I needed a choice too, Tony.”

 

“This isn’t about the Accords anymore, Steve!” Tony huffed as he dropped back into his chair. “All that I want to talk about right now is why you aren’t healing.”

 

“I believe… I could be of some assistance.” Vision had floated through the doorway, his head bowed in shame. “I have spent a lot of time thinking about this, since it happened.”

 

“Why?” Steve asked blankly. “What do you have to do with this, Vision?”

 

Spinning fast enough that his cape flared behind him, Vision turned his attention to Tony, his face wracked with disappointment. “Tony, what have you told Captain Rogers?”

 

“That we’re at a hospital in Germany.” Tony gave Vision a measured look. “We got a little sidetracked in the ‘how’ and ‘why’ he’s here, as you must have gathered by eavesdropping.”

 

“My apologies for intruding,” Vision acknowledged, “I have not yet learned how to contain my hearing to an appropriate human radius. Still, Captain, if I may?”

 

Tony turned to Steve, biting his tongue to keep from letting Steve make a choice. _Does he want to know? Do_ _I_ _want to know?_

 

“Tony,” Steve asked softly, blinking at Vision, “walk me through what happened.”

 

Vision dipped his head. “Of course. You should know the specifics.”

 

Tony swallowed, forcing himself to meet Steve’s pleading expression. _So this is it. This is where Steve gives up on us for good._ “What was the last thing you remember, Steve?”

 

“Getting on a plane with Bucky,” Steve said.

 

“Right. Well.” Tony cleared his throat, trying to delay his next words for as a long as possible. “You and Barnes got on the quinjet, yes. Rhodey and I… Began pursuit.” He glanced at Vision, who wasn’t looking at Steve any longer. “Falcon— Sam— was firing at Rhodey’s suit. He called it in to Vision, requesting assistance.”

 

“You didn’t want to lose,” Steve muttered.

 

Tony wanted to argue— to tell Steve that it wasn’t about winning or losing. But it _was_ , at least in that moment. It was about being right. Winning the argument. _It was exactly like that._

 

Steve shook his head as much as the brace would allow. “I’m not going to make you admit it. What happened to the jet, Tony?”

 

At that, Vision sunk into one of the empty chairs, remarkably not phasing straight through it.

 

“I don’t know,” Tony whispered. “I still don’t know.”

 

“I missed.” Vision was speaking into the tips of his fingers. “Instead of hitting your Falcon’s pack, I was too far right, with too much power.”

 

“And hit the jet,” Steve supplied.

 

“I tried to stop it,” Tony said fiercely. “That little guy had— he caused a malfunction, damage. I couldn’t get enough power, Steve. The jet… it crashed.”

“And now I’m here.”

 

Vision looked stricken at Steve’s words, pressing his hands to his face.

 

“You had a theory, Vision,” Steve pressed.  
  
Straightening up, Vision nodded to Steve, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “Of course. As you both know, although my body is a synthetic creation, I sustain life-like consciousness with the help of the Mind Gem.” Vision gave Steve a bitter smile. “It also gives me...extraordinary powers. Powers that cannot be obtained from any Earthly substance. Captain, I believe that— that the unknown properties of the Mind Gem may have altered your healing factor.”

 

Tony gaped at Vision. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his mouth, trying to process what Vision had just proposed. It was a bitter pill to swallow— particularly when Vision had a near-infinite database of knowledge that he had to have pulled from to reach that conclusion.

 

“If what you’re saying is true,” Tony croaked, “how do we fix it?”

 

Vision sighed heavily. “I have not drawn that conclusion, I’m afraid. I merely have deduced a possible cause for Captain Rogers’ injuries not healing rapidly, as the serum usually would.”

 

“Where’s Bruce when I need him?” Tony snapped. “He understands this better than anyone!”

  
“Indeed,” Vision hummed in agreement. “It is thanks to Doctor Banner’s files that I have gotten this far.”

 

“And this is as far as we’re going to get if we can’t find Bruce,” Tony said doubtfully.

 

Steve had stayed remarkably quiet through their discussion, but coughed loudly before he spoke. “Bruce isn’t here, Tony. Vision is doing everything he can, right?”

 

“Captain,” Vision said fondly.

 

“My ma wouldn’t have wanted me to hold a grudge. I’m not about to start disappointing her now,” Steve vowed. “Vision. It was a mistake. Not the first mistake I’ve seen on the battlefield.”

 

After a week in the hospital, Steve’s condition was stable. Some time during the previous night, Steve had ripped off the neck brace, rendering it effectively useless. When the nurse offered him a new one, Bucky leveled her with a hard glare that sent her scrambling out of the room, brace still in hand.

 

“Steve,” Tony gritted out in exasperation, “how do you expect them to help you if you have an assassin playing guard dog in the corner? No offense, Barnes.”

 

Bucky gave a one-shouldered shrug, resituating himself in the chair that he had positioned in the corner, giving him a direct view of both the room’s window and door. “None taken. Old habits die hard.”

 

“That is so far left from the point I am trying to make.”

 

Steve scowled. “I don’t want it. If it takes Buck giving them a dirty look to get them to back off, well, that’s their fault for not listening to the patient.”

 

“Or, if the patient does more damage to himself before I can get the top neurosurgeon in the United States to call me back, maybe that just means he’s a royal pain in the ass!” Tony snapped.

 

“Neurosurgeon?” Steve demanded. “Dr. Müller didn’t say there was anything wrong with my brain.”

 

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to not go off on Steve. “They also deal with _nerves._ Your neck, the injured vertebrae, the possible nerve damage— it all goes together. From what I’m told, the guy is the closest thing we can get to a miracle worker.”

 

“Me being alive was supposed to be a miracle,” Steve muttered under his breath.

 

At that, Bucky bristled, cutting his gaze to Steve’s face. “Steven Grant Rogers, I will slap the snark right outta your mouth if you keep that up.”

 

The room fell into a loaded silence, Steve pushed up on his elbows and leaning over just enough to catch Bucky’s murderous gaze, while Tony held his breath and wondered who among them would speak first.

 

It didn’t take long for Steve’s voice, low and cutting, to meet Bucky’s challenge. “No one is forcing you to be here, Bucky.”

 

Bucky shoved the chair against the wall, not heeding the clatter as he stood, eyes still trained on Steve’s stubborn expression. “I don’t have to— fuck, I don’t _want to_ —sit here and watch you wallow. That scrappy little shit I pulled out of alleys never felt sorry for himself. The only people you ever gave a damn about pissing off were me and your ma.” He shook his head. “I was proud of you for always fighting. Now you’re too caught up in how things should be.”

 

Bucky brushed past Tony’s chair, not sparing a backward glance at Steve.

 

Tony swore he could see the tears shining in Steve’s eyes just before Steve pressed his face into the pillow, cutting himself off from all the things he didn’t want to face.

 

“Steve?” Tony’s voice quaked. The only thing that acknowledged him was the beep of the O2 monitor. “Maybe it’s time we get you home.” Tony skimmed his fingers over Steve's shoulder blade, wondering if he had gone back to sleep. But first, I have to find Barnes.

* * *

 

When he was sure that Steve was asleep, Tony eased his way into the hall, eyes scanning the dim hall for any signs of Barnes. “Friday, any intel?” he murmured, tapping the frame of his glasses.

“Sergeant Barnes knows how to hide when he does not want to be found,” the AI informed him cryptically.  
  
It was only after he’d already rolled his eyes that Tony remembered Friday couldn’t see his reaction. “That isn’t what I was asking, and you damn well know it,” Tony huffed.

 

“I suspect Barnes would not leave the premises,” Friday noted. “He cares deeply for Captain Rogers.”

 

“About that,” Tony asked as he proceeded down the hall, looking for a stairway door, “you don’t think…”

 

Friday didn’t respond right away. “I don’t understand your inquiry, Boss.”

 

Tony tugged a door open, stalling as he deliberated between going up or down. “You don’t think that… Are you really going to make me say it?”

 

“Affirmative,” Friday said smugly.

 

“I can replace you with a younger model,” he snapped while ascending the staircase. “Is it possible that Barnes is only hanging around Steve because maybe, once upon a time, before Hydra scrambled his brains, maybe they were together?”

 

“This question seems better suited for Romanoff. Should I put her on the line?” Friday offered.

 

All of the signs were in German. _Naturally._ It would give Tony an excuse if someone found him lurking in the emergency stairwells, winding his way up floor after floor. There were only so many places he could think of to hide— all of them as far away from the problem as possible.

 

“Boss?” Friday prompted quietly in Tony's ear.

 

“Put her on,” Tony affirmed, letting out a shaky breath. He could feel his heart rate jumping with every ring, wondering if Natasha would pick up at all. Hell, Tony didn’t even know where she was— or anyone else. He’d sent Vision back to the new facility upstate, trusting Vision to make it home on his own. As for anyone else—

 

“Tony?” Nat’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

 

Tony let out a breathy, half-hearted chuckle. “So you can answer the phone.”

 

“I can,” she affirmed cooly, “when I think there’s a reason to. Don’t make me ask again.”

 

Glancing upward, Tony could see a door at the landing one flight up. It was the one he had been looking for. “Barnes. Steve pissed him off and he disappeared.” He could picture her frowning. “I’m looking for him, Nat.”

 

“You damn well better be.” Natasha sighed heavily into the phone. “So you called me about him?”

“Not exactly,” Tony allowed. “I called to ask you about him— him and Steve. Barnes has barely left Steve’s side since we got here.”

 

“That’s what friends do,” Nat reminded him.

 

Tony couldn’t help but snort. “Then why aren’t you here keeping track of me?” She didn’t answer for a long beat, enough to make Tony wonder if the line had cut out. “Where are you, Natasha?”

 

“Upstate. I’m keeping an eye on Vision. I think he needs a little more help than you do right now, Stark.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth in annoyance. “I still don’t see why you called.”

 

“You knew him,” Tony said slowly, “in Russia. You’re probably the only person alive who knows him as well as Steve does. Barnes sticking around instead of turning tail to go back into hiding— I need to know if he’s only here because they were together. You know… before.”

 

“Are you seriously asking me if my ex-lover is also Steve’s ex-boyfriend?” Natasha balked. “No, Tony. Bucky is hanging around because Steve is the only thing he thinks he has left.”

 

“Is he?” Tony prompted quietly.

 

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” she whispered, almost as if to herself. “Find him, Tony. Then get yourselves home.”

 

Tony hooked his glasses into the collar of his shirt before ascending the last flight of stairs. He pushed open the door, willing the alarm not to sound, and stepped onto the roof of the hospital.

 

“So you are as smart as they say,” Bucky’s voice came from the other end of the rooftop.

 

“No alarm,” Tony said casually as he pulled the door closed. “Your handiwork?”

 

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he sighed warily. “What do you want, Stark?”

 

“To get Steve out of here.” Tony’s eyes were still fixed on Bucky as he made his way to the opposite end. “Thought you might want to help me.”

Bucky didn’t answer until Tony was leaning against the cement beside him. Tugging a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Bucky took his time tapping one out and lighting it, not bothering to offer one to Tony. “You don’t strike me as the type to ask for help,” he said slowly. “Why me? Why now?”

 

“You’re the person who knows Steve best,” Tony vollied.

 

Taking a drag from his cigarette, Bucky considered Tony’s words, eyes straying to somewhere along the skyline. “Maybe I used to be,” he acknowledged, “but I don’t know if I am now.” Bucky dropped the cigarette all the same, stamping it out with the toe of his boot. “Let’s get Steve home.”

 

* * *

 

When Dr. Müller appeared the next morning to administer Steve’s injections, Bucky shook his head before she could roll the cart of supplies through the doorway. “There’s no need for those.”

 

Tony nodded in agreement, giving the doctor a pointed look. “We need to discuss discharge paperwork.”

 

Steve let out a huff of annoyance, pointing a finger at each of them in turn. “I can speak for myself. Dr. Müller, if it’s all the same to you, I’m ready to go home.”

 

Dr. Müller tipped her head in thought, idly rolling the cart back and forth. “I see you have abandoned your neck brace, Captain,” she said flatly. “And now you wish to abandon the treatment that Mister Stark insisted upon?”

 

“Mister Stark,” Steve bit out, “does not speak for me. I went along with this experiment, and after ten days of being laid up in this room, I don’t have a damn thing to show for it. So with all due respect, Doc, I don’t see what more you can do.”

 

The German doctor let out a feeble laugh, sidestepping the cart to come fully into the room. She gingerly sat at the foot of Steve’s bed, ignoring the way that Bucky’s posture stiffened at her proximity. “I warned you, Steven, about the nature of healing this injury.”  Dr. Müller took off her glasses and tucked them into the collar of her shirt, steadying her gaze upon Steve’s face. “I cannot keep you here. I do not wish to, either, though your companions seem to think otherwise. What I wish for you to understand is this: Leaving will not make your recovery easier. Mister Stark has made it quite clear that there are no American experts available to treat you. Every effort will be the same as my own— an experiment.”

 

Steve could see Tony’s pained expression over Dr. Müller’s shoulder, as though he had been physically stung by the doctor’s words.

 

“You said you’re familiar with Dr. Erskine’s notes. Let me tell you the things that his notes probably left out.” Steve lowered his gaze, fisting his hands into the thin blanket that covered his legs, before continuing.  “The more I think about it, the more it seems like I was God’s experiment, back then. How he must have pinched and twisted each part of me to see just how flawed you could make a human being without killing them. I didn’t get the kindness of death. I hung in the balance, with this will to fight back against a world that wasn't able to fix me, but stuck with a body that couldn’t.”  
  
“Steve,” Bucky murmured.

 

“If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, you’re free to leave, Buck,” Steve cautioned. “When you have to fight just to stay breathing, well, no wonder I was pissed at the whole world. No wonder I wanted something that I could change. The army told people that they could change the world. The only one who made good on that was Dr. Erskine.”

 

“Captain Rogers,” Dr. Müller said gently, “you were his greatest accomplishment. You must understand that.”

 

Steve closed his eyes, stepping back in time to the moment he stepped out of Howard Stark’s machine. The look on their faces that day were unmatched. People who truly believed that maybe, just maybe, Erskine had given them someone who could fight back. “I don’t doubt that,” he acknowledged softly. “But now? In this century?” Steve’s eyes fluttered open, glancing between Bucky and Tony. “I’ve seen how much we don’t understand.”

 

“There will always be things we do not understand,” Dr. Müller admitted. “Science seeks to gain knowledge, true, but… The universe is limitless.” She turned to Tony, lifting her chin as she spoke to him. “The two of you have seen things not of this world. I know of your Avengers, as much as anyone else— of the aliens in New York City, and of your god from another world. There is more to life than we know. Perhaps there is more to healing than we know as well.”

 

With that, she stood, giving one last nod to the three of them. “I will gather the discharge paperwork, and oversee it myself. I won’t be long.” As she turned to leave, her hand gripped the door frame for a moment. “Do not forget, Captain Rogers,” she called over her shoulder, “that there can be more than one outcome to every experiment.”

 

Bucky shot Steve a glance as the doctor departed down the hallway. “Y’hear that Stevie? We’re going home.”

 

“Home,” Steve echoed, eyes fixed on Tony.

 

“It isn’t Brooklyn,” Tony relented, “but I think we can squeeze the two of you in.”

 

Steve smiled in spite of himself. _It wouldn’t be home without Tony,_ Steve thought, the words sticking in his throat. Everything was still too fragile, with too many what-ifs and unanswered questions. But at least Steve had that to hang on to. _Home._


	2. Chapter 2

The quinjet ride to the Avenger’s facility upstate was slated to be twelve-and-a-half hours, according to Friday. Tony and Bucky were squabbling in the cockpit over who was going to be the one to get them there.

 

“This is my jet!” Tony barked. “You think I’m going to let someone else fly it?”

 

“Surprised you don’t just have your robot do it for you,” Barnes quipped. He patted the dashboard. “I have more experience.”

 

Tony scoffed, swatting Bucky’s hand away. “That’s because you’re a century old! Which, by the way, no one taking you out by now is a miracle in and of itself.”

 

Bucky stiffened, dropping his hand to back of his waistband to grip his handgun. “That a threat, Stark?” he growled.

 

Steve groaned loudly from his seat. “There are two seats up there. Take turns. Co-pilot. Whatever you do, could we get this bird in the air?”

 

Tony threw up his hands with a growl. “Fine. You know what? You win, Barnes— but only because I want to take a nap. And if we die, I get to blame you.”

 

“Right,” Bucky said drily, “how thoughtful of you, Stark.” 

 

“Friday, can I get the bed?” Tony called out while Bucky fiddled with the controls. 

“Bed?” Steve balked. “Where do you fit a—” He was interrupted by one of the overhead grates lowering, folding out to form a platform that fit snugly into the the aisleway. “—bed.” 

 

“Right there,” Tony said smugly, earning him an eye roll from Steve. “The mattress is— ah— where did Clint put it?” he wondered aloud.

 

“Closet, boss,” Friday chirped.

 

Tony tugged open a sliding door, allowing a foam mattress roll to spring free. “Mattress. Platform. All stows nicely. Or, it would, if Barton could learn to put things back where he found them.”

 

“Of course you’d think of everything,” Steve conceded. “It is one of your better qualities.”

 

“Sit down, Stark, we’re going up!” Bucky shouted from the cockpit, headset slotted over his ears. “You can get your beauty rest when we’re stable.”

 

Dropping into the seat next to Steve, Tony fastened his harness and shot Steve a wink. “Now to see if we make it off the ground.”

 

“I heard that!” Bucky called. 

 

Steve couldn’t suppress his laughter. Listening to Tony and Bucky bicker was something he had never imagined getting the chance to do. Then again, he never thought he would meet Howard Stark’s son, or that he would be frozen in ice for seventy years. Seeing those two in the same place wasn’t even the strangest thing Steve had seen since he woke up. 

 

What was stranger, still, was the way Tony’s gaze kept flickering over to Steve— how Tony’s fingers brushed over the neck brace (that Dr. Müller had insisted he should wear for the course of the flight, in case of any turbulence), or tapped Steve’s leg before quirking an eyebrow to wordlessly ask if everything was alright.  _ When had that happened? _ When had Tony, the person Steve knew to be the least likely to lay a finger on someone else if he didn’t have to, adopt such ease? 

 

“Steve?” 

 

He blinked, looking at Tony’s furrowed brow and realizing he must have missed something. “Sorry, what was that?” Steve asked sheepishly. 

 

“Do you want to use the bed?” Tony offered. “Thought it might be more comfortable for you. I can wait.”

 

Steve frowned as he considered the offer. “All I’ve done is lay in bed,” he sighed, “but… I have to admit, sitting like this isn’t comfortable.” 

 

Tony nudged Steve’s knee with his own. “Go on. I’ll go keep Barnes company until you wake up.”

 

“Does keeping him company involve arguing?” Steve wondered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

“Tell you what,” Tony allowed. “If we argue, we’ll do it quietly.”

 

Steve fiddled with the buckles, standing up slowly and gritting his teeth against the sparks of pain that flared down his legs. “Sure, Tony.”

 

“Friday, dim the lights,” Tony called before offering Steve a hand. “You steady?”

 

“As I’ll ever be,” Steve muttered. “I can do this.”

 

Tony didn’t say anything, instead settling for watching Steve’s measured steps toward the bed. 

 

Steve could feel the heat of Tony’s gaze on the back of his neck, flushed in frustration at the way his nerves were stinging from being in one position for too long. Still, Steve was determined to not let it show, even if it meant going slower than he would have liked. When he reached the edge of the bed, he let his body gratefully collapse, tucked face-down into the pillow. 

 

The last thing Steve remembered was Tony’s hands smoothing a blanket around his shoulders.   
  


* * *

 

Once Tony was sure that Steve had fallen asleep, he dropped into the seat next to Barnes. “You haven’t crashed my jet yet.”

“I’m not going to crash your jet,” Bucky said flippantly, eyes trained on the airspace in front of him. 

“It’s only been an hour. The night is young.” Tony watched Bucky for a long moment before rolling his shoulders, trying to force himself to relax.

“Stark, he’s asleep. There’s nothing more you can do right now.” 

Tony raised an eyebrow as he twisted to look at Barnes with trepidation. “What are you, a fucking mind reader?”

Bucky laughed hollowly. “Wouldn’t that have made the last seventy years easier?” His deadpan comment hung in the air between them, and a beat too late he spoke once more. “No. I just know what’s it like to worry about someone you care about.” Before Tony could protest, Bucky shook his head sharply. “Don’t even try spinning me one o’ your bullshit lines, because it won’t work. You care about Steve. End of story.”

Tony pressed his head into the dash of the jet, not wanting to let Barnes have the satisfaction of watching his face crumple in resignation. “Alright. Yes. I care about him. I thought this had been established over the past couple weeks.” He swallowed roughly. “So what? You care about him. Everyone cares about Steve.”

“Everyone cares about Captain America,” Bucky scoffed. “Not too many people know who ‘Steve’ is, Tony.”

“Not too many people know who Tasha is, either, but I hear you managed,” Tony quipped into the dash. He could see the way Barnes’ knuckles went white at the mention of Natasha, flexing too-quickly to cover it.  _ A nerve.  _ “I care about her too, you know.”

Bucky glanced at Tony, just enough to let the other man feel the burn of his gaze. “Do not make your shit about me. And don’t  _ ever _ doubt that I care about Natalia.”

“Here I thought we were becoming friends,” Tony taunted as he straightened up. “You could have gone after her.”

“No.” He snapped harshly. “You are the last person I want to have this conversation with.”

“But we’re already having it,” Tony appealed.

“There is still plenty of time to crash this jet with you in it,” Bucky vollied in a honey-sweet tone.

Tony rolled his eyes, sure that Barnes would catch the gesture out of his peripheral vision. If two weeks with the former Winter Soldier had told him anything, it was that Barnes missed absolutely  _ nothing.  _ Tony couldn’t help but wonder if he had been that way before everything happened.  _ Should ask Steve about that some time.  _ “Humor me. We have ten more hours in the air— I could use the in-flight entertainment.”

An exasperated breath broke Bucky’s silence. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you are the single-most frustrating person they’ve ever met?”

“More than I can count,” Tony noted cheerfully. 

“Then how the hell haven’t you learned when to stop prying?” Bucky sounded deflated. “Look, do you really give a damn about me and Natalia, or are you just looking for something to keep your mind occupied?” He pulled the jet into a smooth turn, never losing focus as he spoke. “I’m not here to keep your mind off what’s going to happen when we get stateside, Stark.”

“I care about her. The jury’s still out on you.” Pulling his knees up into the seat, Tony folded himself sideways in the seat so that he could look at Bucky as he spoke. “Prying anything out of Tasha always ends in wishing she had just thrown a knife at me, instead of throwing daggers with those eyes of hers.” 

Bucky let out a snort that echoed through the cockpit. “I’ve had my fair share of knives thrown at me by her— of  _ both  _ varieties.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, keeping the other steady on the wheel. “I don’t want to crowd her. If you make someone feel trapped, it just makes them run. I should know something about that. She spent years chasin’ me.”

“She told Steve that you were a ghost story,” Tony added. “She’s no ghost, Barnes.”

“Just because she’s breathing doesn’t mean she ain’t a ghost,” Bucky croaked. “A ghost of someone you remember… That’s worse than a ghost that slips through your fingers.” Clearing his throat roughly, he added, “You’re still deflecting.”

Fidgeting once again, he dropped his feet flat onto the narrow floor space between them and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Can you blame me? For not wanting to have the same looping track reeling its way through my head?”

All that Tony could hear was the air whizzing outside as the quinjet cut through the sky. Maybe he’d said all the wrong things to Barnes already.  _ Never said I was a people-pleaser,  _ he thought as he frowned into his hands. Barnes’ voice cut through Tony’s thoughts. 

“He got pneumonia one winter,” Bucky said softly, forcing Tony to strain just to hear his words. “Stevie never gave up fighting, no matter what hand life dealt him. I always admired that. But pneumonia… It sounded like a death sentence. Couldn’t afford medicine to treat him back then. It was just a year after his Ma came down with tuberculosis.” 

When Tony remained quiet, Bucky carried on telling his story. “Doc said that he might make it another week, if we were lucky. I had to carry him back home from the clinic that night. It was fifteen below and the wind, Jesus, it was bitter. The snow’d all turned to ice and it was everything I could do not to slip. Steve couldn’t help but cough, all that cold air in his wet lungs, and it broke something in me every time. But he had this grip on my coat— the kind of grip that someone three times his size shoulda had. He had more will to live in his little finger than most people have in their whole body, you know?” Bucky’s eyes closed for just a moment, a line etching its way through his forehead as he sighed. “He needs to find a reason to hold tight.”

The weight of Bucky’s words sunk into Tony’s chest, holding him there with nothing but unspoken thoughts and long-lost memories swirling in the air between them.  _ He needs a reason,  _ a voice that sounded an awful lot like Bucky’s nagged in the back of Tony’s mind,  __ because he thinks there’s nothing left to fight for.   
  


* * *

  
It had been two weeks since they arrived back in the States, and nearly six weeks since the accident. Steve could hear Emma, the physical therapist Tony had somehow managed to make appear every single day, counting off the seconds aloud as he held another stretch.  _ Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and...thirty.  _ He let out the breath he’d been holding and collapsed onto the mat. 

__

“You have to remember to breath, Steve, or your muscles won’t receive any oxygen,” Emma chastised. Her arms were crossed over her chest, looking just as disappointed as she had every other day. “Are you up for another set?”

__

Every nerve in Steve’s legs was on fire. Emma’s eyebrows were pinched together with concern, and something about her expression looked all too much like the one Steve’s mother used to wear when he was wracked with a cough. He closed his eyes to shut out her face, and the chilling comparison his mind was weaving. “Why bother?” Steve sighed. “I barely held that one.”

__

“You’re never going to regain endurance if you don’t add more time to your circuit,” Emma scolded in exasperation. “Tony Stark doesn’t pay me to let you off easy, Steve.”

__

“Tony would pay you even if this grumpy fucking bastard didn’t move a muscle,” Bucky crowed from the other side of the gym. 

__

Steve rolled to his stomach, pushing up onto his elbows to shoot a scathing glare at his best friend. “Your mouth knows no bounds, does it?”

__

Bucky rolled his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Just telling the truth.” He wiped at his dripping face with the edge of his t-shirt. “Listen to Emma and maybe Tony will quiet down.”

__

“Does nobody care about what I want?” Steve snapped. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the way his muscles tensed at the shift of position. “I don’t want to do this today.”

__

“Or any day,” Emma muttered. Gathering her dark hair behind her head and snapping a hair tie off her wrist, she swept her belongings into the duffle bag that never seemed to leave her side. “I’ll be back on Monday. Take the weekend to rest, if that’s what you need.”

__

“I’ll do that,” Steve grunted. “A long weekend of sitting on my ass.”

__

“Now who’s the one with the mouth?” Bucky vollied, stepping aside to let Emma out the door. “Have a good weekend, ma’am.”

__

Steve waited until the door clicked shut to take a few shaky steps toward the wall, bracing against it with one hand while staring at Bucky sullenly. “What are you playing at? Sitting in on my physical therapy sessions— honestly, I took you for a better spy than that.”

__

Letting out a snort, Bucky shook his head slowly. “If I wanted to spy on you, you wouldn’t know about it.”

__

“Then Tony put you up to it,” Steve accused, slumping against the wall for support.

__

At that, Bucky strided across the room to stand eye-to-eye with Steve. “You can call me a lot of things, punk,” he growled, “but if I ever hear you call me Stark’s lapdog again, I’ll show you just how wrong you are.” Bucky curled his lip and turned on his heel to leave. 

__

“So that’s it?” Steve called after Bucky, the volume of his voice rising with every syllable. “You’re replacing me? For Tony? You were my friend first.”

__

“And you were a fighter,” Bucky echoed. “Guess we both turned out to be disappointments.”   
  


* * *

__

Steve put his floor on lockdown for the weekend, directing Friday to not let anyone in, especially Bucky and Tony. 

 

“My protocols do not allow me to reject a direct order from Boss,” Friday warned him. “If he demands access, I am obligated to obey.” 

 

Snaking an arm out from under the blankets to wave away the bot’s concerns, Steve nearly forget that she was just a voice in the speakers and not an actual being. “Sure. Fine. Tony will get what he wants, as always,” he growled.

 

When Friday didn’t comment further, Steve pushed himself into a sitting position, rolling his shoulders as he tried to straightened out his neck. Ignoring the way his muscles tensed, he tilted his chin toward his chest, trying to measure how far it would go, just like he had every morning for weeks now. Steve’s body was unyielding, forcing him to stop less than halfway from touching his clavicle. 

 

Left, right, forward, back— no matter the direction, his range of motion wasn’t getting any better. If Steve strained too far, he knew he would surely have a migraine within seconds, the nerves seeming to be a direct line to an explosion of pain behind his eyes. 

 

He gripped the edge of the bedframe in frustration, relishing in the way the wood groaned in protest, so close to splintering under his grip. Strength was the only thing Steve seemed to have left of the serum, and he couldn’t help himself from clinging to that, a shallow reminder of who— or what— he had been  _ before. _

 

There had always been a “before” for Steve. Before he got pneumonia for the first time. Before he broke his first bone. Before the winter of ‘36 almost killed him. All the those things that came before the serum. Now, there were all the things that came before the accident.  _ Isn’t it fitting,  _ he thought solemnly,  _ that the man frozen in time can never live in the now. _

 

It was thirty-eight steps to get from his bed to the shower. Steve couldn’t be sure when he’d started measuring distances by steps, but he was fairly certain that it was new. Thirty-eight sounded like something manageable on the days when his legs shook. All he had to to do was take one at a time, arms outstretched in a sort of counter-balance, fingertips grazing the wall just in case. 

 

By the time Steve’s fingers could grip the bathroom door frame, there were just six steps left between him and the sweet relief of a scalding shower. With the water turned up high enough, there was nothing to feel anymore, every pain receptor stuttering off at the assault of blasting streams of heat. Something about a hot shower still felt luxurious, even before Steve had discovered that it would quiet the nerve pain. Memories of ice-cold showers, snuck hastily between lulls in the unforgiving Brooklyn weather, had never really left him.

 

It was all Steve could do to bite back a sharp cry of pain when the water first hit the length of his spine. The minutes until he could no longer feel anything always seemed to stretch on the longest, as if it wasn’t a measure of time at all, but the transition between an existence he didn’t want to fathom and a reprieve from it. He couldn’t imagine telling anyone how this felt— this desire to escape, even if that meant it was only for a short while. 

 

_ I don’t need their pity,  _ Steve thought bitterly as he pressed his forehead to the smooth tile of the shower wall.  He could feel the rivets of water mapping their way from his shoulders on downward, skimming over every inch of his skin on their way to the drain.

 

There was a lingering relief that hung in the air as Steve turned off the water, drawing a deep breath that only revealed tight muscles, if only for a moment. The hardest part was knowing that this feeling of near-normalcy would fade, sooner than he would have liked. Here and there he’d found these bandaids, things that made living more bearable, but they were only temporary. 

 

Pushing those intrusive thoughts far back in his mind, Steve gingerly headed back toward the closet, determined to get dressed before the numbing effect of the shower wore off.   
  


* * *

The next morning, a knock on the door caused Steve to groan. “Friday, I thought I said this was a lockout weekend.”

“I warned you about Boss,” Friday noted with a hint of resignation. 

The knock must have been no more than a false show of courtesy, because the next thing Steve knew, Tony was standing in his living room. Steve had been laying face-down on the couch with an ice pack spread over his neck, and merely raised a hand to acknowledge Tony’s presence. 

“Can I come in?” Tony joked as he perched in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. 

  
“Make yourself at home,” Steve groaned before pressing his face further into the cushion. 

“Take it that’s a ‘no’ on physical therapy today?” Tony sighed softly. 

“Correct,” Steve murmured. “Emma gave me the weekend off.”

Tony set a cup of coffee on the table, nudging it toward Steve like a peace offering. “I brought you a salted caramel mocha. Your favorite.”

“No more physical therapy. Ever.” Steve twisted his head, what little he could, to examine the distance between the couch and the coffee cup. “That doesn’t mean you get to revoke the coffee, either.”

“Steve,” Tony amodished, “you can’t give up. It’s only been—”

“Three weeks. That’s nearly a month, Tony.” Steve pushed himself upright and rolled to his side. “Three weeks of Emma breathing down my neck and  _ still  _ we have no proof of physical therapy doing  _ anything. _ ”

“Fine,” Tony relented, “you don’t want to go? We’ll go to the chiropractor. Maybe a massage therapist. We have options.” Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Tony held it up as some sort of promise. “I won’t even ask Friday. I’ll make some calls myself.”

“Gee, how very thoughtful of you,” Steve grunted. “Devising more...Options.” He gazed at the wall behind Tony’s head sullenly. “Who needs to be the man with the plan when you have a genius around?”

Turning away from Steve, Tony clenched his fists to quell his shaking hands. “I know this has been… Difficult, for you,” he tried awkwardly. “But I’m just trying to—”

“To help! Yes, you’re always helping!” Steve snapped, speaking over him. 

“Because this is my fault!” Tony’s chest heaved as he spoke. “You wouldn’t be hurt if it weren't for me! Of course I want to help, because if that’s all I can do until I find someone who can fix you, then goddamnit, I sure as hell will!” Shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes, Tony rocked forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Vision wouldn’t exist without me.”

Steve’s tense shoulders softened at the crack in Tony’s voice— the desperate need to be heard and understood underscoring every strained word. “Thor gave life to Vision,” he offered quietly, unsure of what he could possibly say to make the situation any better. 

“And I gave life to Ultron,” Tony whispered as his fingers twisted into his hair. “He was always going to hurt someone I love. I just didn’t know it, back then.”

The air between them felt hard to breathe, weighed down by Tony’s words. Steve wanted to reach out and touch him— anywhere, really— just to remind Tony that he wasn’t alone. Or maybe to. . . to let him know that he was forgiven. Tony wasn’t looking at Steve anymore, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that Steve could only imagine the memories that were swirling behind them. 

With effort, Steve rolled off of the couch, bracing the fall with his forearm on the way. He struggled to sit up straight, enough that he could slide across the floor in a sideways motion, stopping when his back hit the edge of the armchair Tony was sitting in. Steve skimmed his fingers across the back of Tony’s hand, startling Tony enough to open his eyes. 

“Tony, listen to me,” Steve implored. “I don’t blame you. Not for this. It wasn’t your call. It happened, and I have to live with it, but that doesn’t mean I blame you. I’m angry, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to wake up every morning just fighting to make it through the day.” He brought his hand up to rest against Tony’s cheek. “You have to stop blaming yourself for something I don’t even blame you for.”

“I went after you,” Tony choked out, “you and Barnes both.” He closed his eyes once more, clutching at Steve’s wrist with one hand. “And now you’re miserable. I just want to fix it. Jesus, Steve, you can’t possibly know how much I want to fix this.”

“Maybe that’s just it, Tony,” Steve lamented quietly. “No one can fix this. Not even you.”

“Don’t say that!” Tony begged, tears sticking to his lashes. “Don’t give up, not yet, Steve. We haven’t tried everything.”

A sigh escaped Steve’s lips as he scooted further, turning his body slowly until he was kneeling directly in front of Tony. “You don’t have to save the world to make up for your mistakes.”

“No,” Tony acknowledged softly, “because it would take lifetimes to fix all of my mistakes.” His eyes met Steve’s, a hint of defiance still buried within them. “But maybe the rest of this one will be enough to make it up to you.”

“You don’t need my forgiveness.” Steve held Tony’s gaze as he rested a hand on Tony’s knee.

Steve’s proximity was enough to suck all of the air out of Tony’s lungs. They didn’t do…  _ this.  _

Closeness. Hard conversations. Feelings. But there Steve was, his touch branding Tony’s skin, sending a flush creeping up his neck. “But what if I want it?” he murmured, closing his eyes to shut out Steve’s intense eye contact. 

Sliding the hand that had been resting against Tony’s knee upwards, Steve cupped both sides of the other man’s face. “Look at me,” Steve demanded quietly. Something about his voice oozed Captain America, but he didn’t dwell on that-- instead, he waited until Tony’s eyes blinked open, bloodshot and still glazed with tears. “You’ve done everything just right, Tony. There’s nothing to forgive. Maybe there’s something to fix, but it isn’t between us. It’s on me.”

“I know what it feels like, you know,” Tony covered one of Steve’s hands with his own, “to feel like you’re broken.” He glanced at the faint blue light that hovered underneath his t-shirt with a strained smile. “Sometimes all we can do is adapt.”

“Give me time,” Steve whispered. “That’s what I need right now, Tony.”

Tony gave Steve’s hand a squeeze before slipping off of the couch. “That sounds like the least I can do,” he hedged.  _ Sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that I’d do anything for you, Rogers,  _ Tony thought to himself as he side-stepped around Steve, still seated on the floor. “You know where to find me.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Although he couldn’t prove it, Tony highly suspected that Friday had something to do with Natasha’s appearance in his penthouse three days later. That, or the ever-perceptive ex-assassin had noticed that Tony hadn’t  _ left  _ the penthouse in those three days. 

 

With no preamble, Natasha had breezed through the elevator doors to drop down on the couch beside him. “How’s Steve?” she prompted.

 

“Stubborn,” Tony snorted. “I don’t know how Barnes ever dealt with it.”

 

“The same way you are, I imagine,” Nat acknowledged. She pulled her feet up and folded them into Tony’s lap. “I’ll do the worrying about Barnes.”

 

Shooting a pointed look at Nat’s feet, Tony shook his head in amazement. “Talking about your boyfriend while you’re invading my personal space. Really, Natasha, I pegged you for more class.”

 

He should have expected the throw pillow to the face, all things considered.  _ Still worth it.  _

 

“If Barnes is my boyfriend,” she hedged, “what does that make Steve to you?”

 

“A six-foot-two pain in my ass?” Tony offered as he shoved her feet back on the couch. “I need a drink.”

 

“When are you going to admit that you’re hopelessly in love with him?”

 

“I’m not,” Tony said absently, pouring a glass of scotch. 

 

Natasha snorted, raising her eyebrow at the sizeable glass of liquor. “Not in love with him, or not going to admit it?”

 

In lieu of answering, Tony tipped his glass at her before promptly downing it. 

 

She shook her head. “I’m not going to stop asking.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony said flippantly. 

 

“Right, because you move all of your broken teammates as close to your floor as possible.” Nat pushed off of the couch to join Tony at the bar, rummaging around for a bottle of vodka. 

 

“If I hadn’t moved him into the facility, who would help him?”

 

“James?” Nat suggested. She twisted the lid off of the bottle, squinting at the amount left before opting to down it straight.

 

Tony made a noise of displeasure. “Now there’s going to be lipstick on the bottle. Are you marking your territory?”

 

The bone-dry vodka bottle that hit the bartop was the only answer he got. Natasha was already walking out, not sparing him a backwards glance. 

  
“I am not in love with Steve Rogers!” he called after her. “Natasha!”

 

“And I’m not a trained assassin,” she mocked before the elevator doors closed, leaving Tony to stew in his proclamations alone. 

 

“I’m not,” he said to the empty room. “Right, Friday?”

 

The AI didn’t answer him.  __ So much for reassurance.  
  


* * *

 

If Tony’s guilt was an ocean, Vision’s was every damn body of water that covered the surface of the planet. Steve could feel it hanging in the air all too often, clinging to the android at any given moment that Steve caught him hovering (literally) nearby since coming back to the facility. 

“You really need to learn how to knock,” Steve said without real chagrin, pinching the bridge of his nose as he made his way to the fridge one morning. 

“My apologies, Captain, if I have upset you,” Vision said solemnly. He wrung his hands as he watched Steve’s every movement. “Shall I depart?” 

Steve shook his head as he suppressed a sigh. “You’ll be back anyway. Maybe not today, but you will be.” It was impossible to incline his head to look down— the pressure and strain that the simple movement put on his neck was still baffling to Steve. Instead, he had to drop into a squat in order to peer at the contents of the refrigerator, all the while well-aware of Vision’s steadfast gaze trained on him. “Vision?”

“Captain?” 

“The way Tony puts it, you shouldn’t be able to feel guilt.” Steve straightened back up, a canister of coffee grounds tucked under his arm and a carton of eggs clutched in one hand. “But… you’re acting just like him. Worse, even.” Realizing that he had said the last bit out loud, Steve spared a glance at Vision. “I guess what I mean is… How?”

“How do I feel human emotion?” Vision prompted. At Steve’s nod, Vision tipped his head, floating to one of the barstools against the counter and perching awkwardly atop it. “I have been asking myself that very question since the day of your accident.” He let out a soft sigh, resting his hands on the countertop. “It started with— with Wanda. I thought it to be something like… Projection. That the mind gem might be reacting to her power.”

Raising an eyebrow, Steve leaned against the opposite side of the counter on his elbows. “When?” He knotted his fingers together loosely, if only for something to do. “I don’t think this thing with Wanda didn’t happen overnight.”

“Seven months ago,” Vision divulged quietly. “Seven months, fourteen days, six hours, and thirty-eight minutes, if you’d like to be specific.”

Steve couldn’t help the way the corner of his mouth tipped up at Vision’s specificity. It took some getting used to, but it was one of his more “normal” quirks. “Let’s stick to seven and a half months ago. That means it was four months before—”

“—before I lost my focus and caused your quinjet to crash.” Vision splayed his fingers out uselessly. “Your coffee, Captain,” he noted just seconds before the machine beeped. 

“Are you psychic now? On top of everything else?” Steve snapped in mild annoyance. 

Vision shook his head as he laced his fingers together. “Not at all. Although JARVIS did spend countless mornings getting Sir’s coffee ready, timed to be complete the moment that he would enter the kitchen. Perhaps it is a leftover piece of data, manifesting as hyperawareness?”

Blinking shrewdly, Steve turned away to get his cup of coffee, knowing all too well that he was merely ineffectively stalling the inevitable. Vision had something to say and despite everything that had happened, a part of Steve wanted to hear it. Steve raised his mug of black coffee toward Vision, a gesture for him to continue on, before methodically cracking eggs into a skillet. “Super soldier metabolism,” he noted with a twinge of apology, turning his back to Vision.

Vision began explaining once again. “You want to know about my capacity for human emotion, which was sparked by Wanda. As I was saying, I did not fully understand that the feelings were internal, in the beginning. I assessed the situation and concluded that I could still feel for Wanda when she was nowhere near me— a projection of that magnitude would cause devastating effects on her energy levels. It would have been...detectable, were she showing me her own feelings. I felt— feel— for her on my own, Captain.”

Tony had entered the room while Steve’s back was turned. He slipped into the barstool next to Vision, eyeing Steve’s every movement. “You fell in love with Wanda?” 

Steve spun on his heel to shoot Tony a charged look, furrowing his brow as he stirred his eggs around the pan. “Does everyone think they can come and go as they please? Without knocking?”

“Like father, like son,” Tony implored. “Or whatever Vision is. I’m not sure kid is the right word.”

Vision blinked curiously, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he answered. “I can discern familial relationships between us, though not of the parental nature.”

Steve flung his hands up, turning back to his eggs. “Coffee’s hot,” he sighed with resignation. “I’m never going to hear what Vision has to say, am I?”

“You are,” Tony vollied as he padded across Steve’s kitchen in socked feet toward the coffee maker, “because I want to hear it too.” 

Tony skimmed a hand over Steve’s forearm before he reached for a mug, so quickly that Steve was sure he’d imagined it. 

“The longer I co-exist with the Mind Gem, the more I am sure that it is as much a part of me as Tony’s programming was of JARVIS.” Vision waited for Tony to sit back down, catching his eye as he did. “I am more. I cannot explain it, not fully— but I believe that the Gem itself gives me the power to form connections.”

Tony leaned closer, propping an elbow on the counter as he gaped at Vision. “Like synapse in a human brain?”

“Precisely,” Vision affirmed softly. 

Steve plated his eggs before turning to look at Vision and Tony. A ghost of something that might have been sadness hovered on his face, just below the surface— ready and waiting to show itself if Steve let himself crumble. “And human minds aren’t perfect. They become distracted.”

“It is inexcusable, Steve,” Vision pled with him. “For all that I am— programming and synthetics and otherworldly material— I should never have been in a position to compromise a mission. To compromise your very  _ safety. _ ”

Steve shook his head minutely, aware of the pinching nerve that was blooming pain across his neck. “It happened, Vision. And now we have to live with the fallout.”    
  


* * *

It wasn’t until Bucky was standing in his kitchen at 1am that Tony remembered he had invited the former Winter- _ fucking _ -Soldier to come live in his Tower. Frankly Tony wasn’t sure which he was more pissed about— that Friday hadn’t altered him to Barnes’ presence in the penthouse, or that he’d been startled enough to drop the glass he was about to refill with scotch. 

“Still haven’t lost the super-spy tricks, have you?” Tony muttered as he bent down to collect the pieces of broken glass. 

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, out of reach from the glass. “Still haven’t figured this all out, have you?”

“Your set of unique, and thoroughly annoying, skills leftover from your time as the world’s most efficiently trained killer?” Tony snorted sarcastically. “I think I’ve got that bit covered, thanks.” He dumped the glass into the trash can, flicking on the kitchen light to inspect for any stragglers. 

“Not me, Stark,” Bucky snapped sourly. “Under the fridge. Another three centimeters from the molding.” Without waiting for Tony to answer, he scooped the fragments into his metal hand. “I always thought someone as smart as you are would be more observant, Stark.”

Tony squinted at him. “Normal people are not ‘observant’ at 1am, chuckles.”

“Who the fuck said you’re normal?” Bucky leaned heavily against Tony’s fridge. “Drunk, maybe. Clueless as all hell, definitely. Normal? There isn’t a goddamn thing about you that’s normal, Stark.”

Devoid of his glass, Tony plucked his bottle of scotch from the counter, opting to take a swig straight out of it. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re in my penthouse? The sooner you spit it out, the sooner I can get rid of you.” 

Bucky’s gaze followed Tony’s hand as he raised the bottle to his lips once more. Reaching over, Bucky tugged the bottle free of Tony’s grip and drained it himself. 

“You can’t even get drunk!” Tony crowed. 

“Now you can’t either,” Bucky growled as he pitched the bottle into the trash with the remements of Tony’s glass. “At least, you can’t get any more drunk than you already are.” He wrinkled his nose pointedly. “Could smell your evening party favors from here, even when you were down the hall.”

Tony met Bucky’s look of disdain with one of his own. “Exactly how long have you been waiting here?” 

A metal hand waved dismissively. “Irrelevant. You want to know why I’m here?”

Sinking into an armchair in resignation, Tony closed his eyes and gestured for Bucky to go on. “If I don’t agree, I’m sure you’ll never let me get to sleep.”

“You haven’t been sleeping anyway,” Bucky acknowledged mildy, ignoring Tony’s raised eyebrow as he spoke. Bucky crossed his arms over his chest as stared down at Tony. “Keep yourself up all night with worry, and when you do sleep, all you have is nightmares about the crash. Circles so dark it looks like you’ve been brawling. All but falling asleep whenever you stop moving. Sound about right?” When Tony didn’t answer him, Barnes pressed on. “It should. And you’re supposed to be smart enough to realize that you’re not the only one who can’t move past this.”

The words sloshed around in Tony’s mind. There wasn’t enough booze in his entire bar to chase away the nightmares. It didn’t surprise him that Barnes knew— sometimes it seemed like Steve’s counterpart knew damn near everything about everyone. Natasha was no different, though.  _ Peas in a goddamn pod, the two of them,  _ he thought sullenly. “You’re right. I’m lucky to get an hour, maybe two, before I’m pulled right back under.” He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands just enough to muffle whatever came next. 

“Speak up, Stark,” Bucky growled with trepidation. “Can’t have a conversation with your hands over your damn face.”

“I said, I’m not as smart as they make me me out to be!” Tony snapped back, dropping his hands as he stood up to face Bucky. “Not when it comes to people. Not when it comes to my goddamn  _ self _ for fuck’s sake! Science— machines— things I can take apart to know how they tick, that I know how to fix, that have clear answers? Sure. That’s where the genius goes. But when it comes to… to…” Tony flung his hands into the air to indicate something unseen. “There’s no method to people. No logic. No way to know what makes them tick, or how to fix them. So if you want to say something, Barnes, spit it out.”

“Steve has them too.” Bucky’s jaw tensed as he said it. “Pushing himself to stay awake, because he knows the minute he closes his eyes, he’ll be right back in the same nightmare. He’s stubborn, and so are you, but neither of you can see that you’re both running from the same shit.” He shook his head, eyes never leaving Tony’s wary expression. “Think on that when you’re sober: that you and Steve have more in common than you ever thought.”

Tony couldn’t muster a word as he watched Bucky walk down the stairs, a few of those choice words ringing through his mind. 

_ You’re both running from the same shit.  _

Crossing the room to press his forehead to the bank of windows, Tony let out a sigh.  __ Who’s going to save who from the wreckage this time?  
  


* * *

__

Morning came all too soon, beginning with unwelcomed sunlight falling over Tony’s face. He slung an arm over his eyes with a groan. “Friday, we talked about you turning on the lights to wake me up. Dick move.”

__

“That is not the lights, Boss,” the AI sassed. “You fell asleep on the couch. Again.”

__

Tony sat up abruptly, kicking off the blanket that was tangled around his feet.  _ The couch?  _ He cast a glance at the kitchen, as if he expected Barnes to still be standing there and lecture-ready. Cautiously pushing away from the couch, Tony went to inspect the trash can and was greeted by the site of shattered glass. “That… wasn’t a dream,” he mused aloud. “Barnes really showed up here in the middle of the damn night. Typical ex-assassin.”

__

“Sergeant Barnes is not on my report-as-threats list,” Friday informed him. “Shall I alter this list for future reference?”

__

Tony haphazardly shoved a pair of sunglasses from the countertop onto his face in an effort to block out the offending sunlight. “You know what Friday, that sounds like a….” he trailed off, remembering what Barnes had said before he left hours before. “No,” Tony said clearly, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh of resignation. “Barnes is safe.”

__

“Understood,” Friday acknowledged before the room fell into silence.

__

Fiddling with the sunglasses long enough to set them straight upon his nose, Tony sighed heavily. Bucky Barnes had broken into his penthouse to tell Tony…  _ what _ , exactly? That he should stop wallowing? That Steve was wallowing? That they needed to move on? 

__

_ You’re both running from the same shit.  _

__

“If Steve really knew,” Tony muttered just under his breath, “the only thing he’d do is run.” It didn’t feel right to keep things from Steve, but it was the only way to keep him  _ here _ . Being here, in the facility, meant that Tony could keep him safe— could keep him away from all the things that had led them to this point. All the things that ruined Steve’s life were out there.  _ All of them… except me.  _

__

Maybe that was just it. No matter how hard you try, you can’t run from yourself. Your fears, your mistakes, and all of your doubts— all of them will catch you in the end. Tony just hadn’t stopped running long enough to let them. 

__

_ I need to find Steve _ , Tony thought wearily,  _ or I’ll always be running from something.  _

__

Tugging his cell phone free from the depths of his jean pocket, Tony held it up to close enough to his face to be heard. “Friday, call Steve.”   
  


* * *

Steve liked to come to the gym first thing in the morning. He had discovered, in the recent months since he stopped accepting Emma’s help with physical therapy, that he could make it the eight flights of stairs from his floor to the lower level before the muscles in his legs began to quake in protest. That meant he could come just a few steps further— just far enough into the gym that he could rest his hand against smooth surface of the hanging bags. The resistance under his fists— and the way it would split beneath them— was one of the things he missed the most. 

It was there, sitting in a chair against the wall with his palm pressed to the leather, that Steve could let go. 

Until the ringing of his cell phone interrupted Steve’s serenity. 

“Who is it?” Steve spat in exasperation, not realizing that he said the words aloud. 

“Boss is trying to reach you, Captain,” Friday supplied. “Shall I decline the call?”

Steve considered the possibility as his phone vibrated against his thigh. The prospect was tempting— but ignoring Tony wouldn’t solve anything. “No,” he relented with a sigh as he nudged the phone out of the pocket of his shorts. Pressing the screen, Steve wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder, letting the hand that had been resting against the bag slip away. “Tony?” he breathed hesitantly. 

“Where are you?” Tony queried.

Answering Tony’s question would mean letting his walls down. Saying he was in the gym would be akin to admitting he sought solace there. Everything Steve could say vacillated between dismissive and relenting.  _ But which does Tony deserve?  _

“I’m… in the gym,” Steve admitted cautiously, bracing himself for a patented Stark lecture. 

“Can I meet you there in five minutes?” Tony asked with a note of pleading in his voice (Tony never pleaded). 

Steve tapped the phone lightly to switch it back to speaker before holding it out in front of him. Tony’s contact page hovered on the screen. Steve ran his thumb over the photo at the top, prompting it to enlarge to full-size and fill the screen. Tony had been laughing at some joke of Clint’s (that Steve didn’t understand), clad in one of his ratty old band shirts. Vintage, he always called them. The jovial expression took years off of his face. It was the Tony Stark that the work didn’t see. That picture was Steve’s favorite— a guarded secret, one that he knew Tony would have had a fit over if he knew it had been taken. 

A strained voice that came over the phone once more. “Steve?”

  
“Five minutes,” Steve echoed, pressing the phone to his forehead as he closed his eyes.   
  
  


* * *

Tony didn’t need five minutes. 

 

He hauled the door open in under three, skidding to a stop as his eyes panned the room in search of Steve’s face. There, by the row of bags, Tony caught sight of him. Steve was nearly undetectable, tucked into the corner and obscured by the breadth of a punching bag. He was watching Tony. 

 

“Thought you said five minutes,” Steve quipped.

 

Shaking his head, Tony approached Steve slowly. “This couldn’t wait that long.” Under Steve’s scrutinizing gaze, Tony flushed with embarrassment. “Couldn’t wait any longer, anyway.”

 

With a perplexed look, Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you talking about?” 

 

Tony bit his lip, wondering if he was really about to go through with it.  _ I have to.  _ “We’ve been avoiding each other for months, Steve. I’m tired of running.”

 

Steve pushed himself out of the chair, taking a moment to plant his feet firmly on the floor before taking a step closer to Tony. “We’re here now,” he got out hesitantly.

 

“Isn’t that something?” Tony hummed, tipping his head back to meet Steve’s gaze. “But being here… Isn’t enough. It hasn’t been enough.”

 

“Tony,” Steve sighed in exasperation, “I’m not going to stand here and listen to you talk about all the reasons why you’re not doing enough. I’ve been hearing it for months. If that’s the only reason you came—”

 

“It isn’t.” Tony’s gaze softened. “That isn’t why I’m here, Steve.”

 

Steve rolled his shoulders as he straightened up, ignoring the way the motion sent warning flares up his neck. “Why are you here, then? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait? That you had to run all the way here?” He reached across the space between them to brush a hand over the beads of sweat on Tony’s forehead to prove his point. “I’m tired of playing charades, Tony.”

 

“You’re not good at games, are you?” Tony joked weakly. When Steve set his mouth in a hard line, Tony held up his hands. “Just a joke. A bad one, true, but you always say that all of my jokes are bad.” 

 

“Tony.” Steve shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

 

“I know, I know— enough with the bad jokes.” Tony rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes for a moment while he tried to regain composure. “This isn’t easy for me, Steve,” he blurted.

 

“Talking?” Steve said evenly, staring down at Tony’s pinched expression. 

 

“Feelings!” Tony howled as he shook his head. “Talking about them— having them—all of this shit! Steve, I don’t  _ do  _ this.”

 

Steve reached out cautiously, resting the back of his hand against Tony’s face. “Neither of us have had it easy, Tony. Not in a long time.”

 

Something about the tone of Steve’s voice told Tony that he wasn’t just talking about the months since the accident. The bone-deep weight Steve carried around was older than that. Tony knew that feeling all too well— the lingering pain that always hovered just beneath the surface. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispered, letting himself lean into Steve’s touch, “for not talking sooner. For letting it come to all of this.” Covering Steve’s hand with one of his own, Tony willed himself to meet Steve’s gaze once more. “I didn’t hit the quinjet. I couldn’t have stopped it— trust me, I tried. But I didn’t have to push you into feeling like it was your only choice.” 

 

Steve didn’t pull away from Tony’s touch. Instead, he linked his fingers with Tony’s, giving them a squeeze for reassurance. “That’s the first time you’ve apologized for something you actually did,” he relented quietly. “You’ve spent all this time hating yourself for the accident. Never once talked about how it all got there.” Steve looked away, ashamed of the way heat spread across his face as he felt the tell-tale signs of oncoming tears. “I could have asked for your help, to find him. I was blind. Reckless. Stubborn.”

 

“This isn’t about Barnes,” Tony corrected softly. “It’s never been about him. Or Vision.”

 

“What is this about, then?” Steve countered thickly as he swallowed back the tears that threatened to spill over. “What has this always been about?”

 

“You,” Tony proclaimed, trying to hide the way his voice shook, “and me.”

 

The words were barely out of Tony’s mouth before Steve was slipping an arm around Tony’s waist, tugging him closer, until there was no space left between them. “You and me,” Steve got out in barely a whisper. 

 

Tony tucked his head against Steve’s chest, letting the tears he had willing away fall where they may. “We have a lot to talk about,” Tony admitted. “But someone gave me a piece of advice that I’m trying out.”

 

“What advice was that?” Steve murmured, one arm still locked around Tony. 

“That we both have to stop running.” Tony pulled back just far enough to speak clearly. “I’m done running from you. From this. And if all I’ve done is ruin it—”

 

“You’ll ruin something if you keep talking, Tony,” Steve rumbled before tipping Tony’s chin upward to bring him closer. “In my experience, Starks talk too much.”

 

Tony snorted lightly, “I resemble that remark.”

 

“Then I’ll just have to make you stop talking,” Steve announced before he covered Tony’s mouth with his own. 

 

Steve could feel Tony’s fingers clutching at his shirt in surprise, and the way Tony pressed his body against him. With one hand cupping Tony’s jaw, Steve tightened his grip on Tony’s waist as he deepened the kiss. He couldn’t be certain who’s tears were falling anymore. 

 

Steve poured everything he had never said into the way his lips moved against Tony’s, trying to tell a story of all the ways that he wanted this. When it came to Tony, Steve was always raring for a fight. In the end, he always ran. This right here was the furthest thing from running. All Steve needed to know was clear in the way that Tony hadn’t pulled away. The way he said  _ you and me.  _

 

Maybe it had been all about this— the two of them— all along.    
  


 

 

 


End file.
